


all i can

by emavee



Series: Whumptober 2020 [21]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Forehead Touching, Gen, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sensory Deprivation, he's getting one but :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27172454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emavee/pseuds/emavee
Summary: Whatever they injected Dick with is taking away his senses. Bruce tries to hold on for both of them.Whumptober Day 24: sensory deprivation
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948276
Comments: 22
Kudos: 293





	all i can

There’s no clock on the wall of their little cell, but according to Bruce’s internal timer, it’s probably been about an hour and half since they first injected an unknown substance into Dick’s neck. Dick’s neck, not Nightwing’s, and Bruce is Bruce, not Batman. He has no idea what these guys want with their civilian personas, and that scares him a bit. Normally by now they would have made some sort of demands for money or W.E. tech, but they haven’t said a word to either of them. 

If he had to chance a guess, he’d say this was some sort of revenge plot, which scares him even more. If all they want to do is hurt Dick in some twisted scheme, well then he’s virtually helpless to do anything but watch.

“Any symptoms?” he asks Dick again.

Dick frowns, and Bruce sits up straighter, trying to shift into Batman-mode with nowhere to go. “Actually, I don’t think I can smell anything.”

“Congestion?” Bruce asks. It’s a bit weird for poisoning, but not impossible, and he’s not going to doubt Dick’s assessment.

Dick shakes his head. “No, I’m not congested. I just can’t smell.”

Dick keeps holding things up to his nose and sniffing, confused frown deepening as the anosmia seemingly remains. 

“Okay,” Bruce says, but then he doesn’t know what else to add. He hates this, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There’s no way that all that mystery drug did was take away Dick’s sense of smell. “Something respiratory, then?”

Dick shrugs. “I can breathe fine though.” He sniffs the back of his hand, apparently unsuccessfully, and shrugs again. “So weird.”

“The minute anything changes…”

Dick smiles at him, almost reassuring. “I’ll let you know, B, don’t worry.”

* * *

“B—” Dick says suddenly, voice choked and panicked and for a moment Bruce is terrified that he can’t breathe, that respiratory failure of some sort is setting in.

“Dick—”

“B, I can’t… I can’t see.”

Bruce freezes. “What?”

“I said I can’t see.” Dick is clearly trying so hard to stay calm, but his voice keeps cracking in and out and he’s hedging towards hyperventilation, chest heaving and breath whistling. 

Bruce shuffles close to him in an instant, making sure to make enough noise with each movement that Dick can track his location. “It’s okay, Dick. You’re okay.” Bruce reaches out to grab his wrist and Dick startles slightly, even though he surely knew Bruce had moved closer. 

“I can’t see,” he repeats. “I can’t see anything.”

“I know, son, but you’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out.” It’s not permanent. It can’t be.

“I don’t think I can taste either,” Dick half-laughs, sounding a bit hysterical. “I didn’t notice until now. B—I… I can’t see. I can’t see—”

Bruce hushes him, rubbing soothing circles against his wrist with his thumb. “You’ll be okay, Dick. I’ll figure this out. I swear.”

Dick nods, then slowly tips over sideways until his head is resting on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce wraps an arm around him and holds him, trying to keep his breathing steady so Dick doesn’t hear the worry pounding in his chest.

* * *

Bruce has never been very good at talking. He’s fine at schmoozing old, rich assclowns, but outside of that persona he’s created, he’s just not that sociable. It doesn’t come easy to him. He’d been in for a rude awakening when Dick entered his life and, once he started to recover from his grief, started chattering constantly. Dick at twenty is friendly and easygoing, able to hold a conversation with just about everyone, even hardened criminals. Dick at nine had been in some sort of state of perpetual motion, tumbling all around the Manor and babbling with seemingly no end in sight. As tiring as it could be sometimes (Alfred had found him conked out on the couch or the floor during Dick’s childhood years more times than he’d like to admit), it meant that Bruce didn’t have to talk, because Dick was chatty enough for both of them.

He wishes he had even half of nine-year-old Dick’s conversational abilities right now. 

Still, even with his awkward pauses as he tries to think of what to say next, and with half of his databank being filled with not-so-riveting tales of board meetings, Bruce doesn’t stop talking. He murmurs story after story into Dick’s hair, doing his best to not let a moment of silence pass. He can tell Dick is scared, no matter how he tries to hide it. All of Bruce’s kids have been trained to operate without their sight at one point or another, but training with a blindfold and having lost your sight due to some unknown drug are two entirely different matters. Bruce hopes to god it isn’t permanent. Dick is strong, he would be able to get back on his feet, but having his senses forcibly stripped from him is a trauma that his eldest most certainly doesn’t need.

“You’re going to be okay, chum,” he whispers, lips pressed against the hair just above Dick’s temple. “The others will find us and we’ll reverse this, okay? I promise you. I will fix this.”

Dick nods. He looks bone-tired, his initial panic at losing his sight having drained all of his energy and left him worn down. 

“Talk to me about high school Bruce, what was he like?” Dick mumbles, and Bruce chuckles. 

“A troublemaker,” he says. “Even more than you.”

Dick scoffs, and something nearing happiness wrinkles around his eyes. Bruce can’t help but smile. “I was never a troublemaker.”

“You were,” Bruce smoothes the hair on his forehead back and then lets his hand linger, carding through the few tangles at the nape of his neck. “But that’s okay. You got suspended far fewer times than—”

“Bruce!” Dick startles, shoving himself up and off of Bruce’s shoulder. “I can’t hear you anymore. I can’t hear anything!”

And just like that, the fragile, tentative comfort he’d managed to provide Dick is shattered, obliterated as Dick panics, looking around for someone he cannot see and snapping repeatedly next to his ears as he tries desperately to hear something. A desperate whine seems to tear its way out of his throat, and the sound has Bruce lurching into action.

Slowly, gently, Bruce takes his hands, uncurling them from panicked fists to lay his palms open on his lap. Dick startles but lets him. Bruce tries to ignore how Dick’s hands tremble (as well as the shaking in his own limbs).

_ HERE,  _ he draws the letters against Dick’s skin.  _ OKAY. HERE. _

Instead of replying, Dick latches onto his hands for all he’s worth, fingernails digging miniature trenches into the backs of Bruce’s hands. He doesn’t mind, more than willing to let Dick cling to him as much as he needs. He can’t imagine it—no sight, no sound, not even smell. Bruce will gladly be his anchor. 

He prays that the drugs don’t progress any further, holding Dick’s hands just as tightly, as if he can keep his sense of touch from sliding away.

He taps his stories in Morse code against Dick’s palms. He has no idea if Dick is listening, but he doesn’t stop. It would feel too much like abandoning him.

* * *

He knows immediately when Dick’s sense of touch slides away.

“B?” Dick whispers, his voice barely there. Lost. Terrified. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Bruce says back, taps back, even though Dick can’t hear or feel him. “I’m here, chum. Please.” What he’s pleading for, he’s not even sure.

Dick’s hands don’t hold onto Bruce’s anymore, although his fingers twitch like he’s trying to find something to feel. He stares at nothing, tears that he can’t feel trailing down his cheeks. Bruce wipes them away anyway. 

It’s agony, seeing him like this.

“Bruce?” Dick asks again, too loud. His voice cracks on a sob. “Bruce,  _ please. _ ”

“I’m right here,” Bruce repeats, cupping Dick’s face between his hands. He’s less gentle than he usually would be, desperate for Dick to feel that he’s still there with him. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I would never leave you.” Never again. 

He cups the back of Dick’s head, pressing their foreheads together while his other hand grasps at Dick’s limp ones. Without his hand holding Dick’s head in place, he would’ve moved with the shift, been pushed back and away, unable to return the gesture on his own. 

“You’ll be okay, Dick. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m never leaving you.” 

“Please find me,” Dick whispers. “I don’t know where I am.”

“You’re right here, sweetheart.” Bruce presses closer, squeezes harder. Of course Dick doesn’t react.

His heart is breaking, everything in him shaking with desperation to reach Dick, despite his son sitting right in front of him. 

Bruce changes their position again, tucking Dick’s head against his chest and under his chin. Tears soak into the fabric of his shirt.

“What do you want?” he begs, looking for a camera he knows is here somewhere, watching them fall apart. “Money? I’ll give you anything you want. Anything. Just…  _ Please… _ ”

He waits several minutes, but there’s nothing. No response. Dick stops crying, sags practically boneless against Bruce’s chest. When Bruce tilts his face up to check on him though, his eyes are still open, clouded and glazed and oh so lost.

“I’ll give you whatever you want, just… Please, you have to undo this. Whatever I’ve done, your problem is with me, not him. Leave him out of this.”

No one comes, but deep down Bruce didn’t really expect them to. If their goal is revenge against Bruce Wayne, Bruce can’t think of a better torture than this. His heart aches for his kid, who is so scared and alone and Bruce  _ swore _ to himself that he was never going to let Dick feel that way ever again. And here he is, failing him. Failing Dick again and again, even when he’s  _ right there. _

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispers, pressing a long kiss to the crown of his son’s head. “I’m sorry, Dick, I’m so sorry.”

He holds him close, closer than he’s ever held him before, even though Dick can’t feel it. 

“I’m not leaving you,” he says, as if it means a damn thing.

**Author's Note:**

> :)
> 
> once whumptober is over i'm gonna write so much fluff i feel like i owe it to dick


End file.
